


Vespers

by sass_bot



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Family Dynamics, Gen, Jowan brings tragedy upon himself, Mages bickering with other mages, Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Platonic Relationships, Self-indulgent fluff, Surana helps jowan bring tragedy upon himself, Surana is a little shit, Templars and Mages bickering, disgustingly sweet platonic love, giving jowan the love he deserves, probably won't have a plot, some parts of this fanfic belong right in the trash ngl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-03-26 01:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13847079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sass_bot/pseuds/sass_bot
Summary: Before she became the Hero of Ferelden, she was just Anya Surana, an apprentice at the Circle of Magi.The year 9:28 was a more peaceful time in Kinloch Hold, where mages and templars lived in begrudging harmony. Sometimes, it was possible to pretend that even the ugliest corners of the spire didn't exist.This is a series of snapshots into a life full of blank vellum, lyrium dust in weird places, Anders trying to escape (again), and talking shit about templars to their faces.





	1. A brief glimpse of the accidents of Jowan's distant future

**Author's Note:**

> This is all self-indulgent fluff. I just have a lot of feelings about life in the circle before the blight. If you're also into dumb self-indulgent fluff, I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> I honestly don't know how many chapters of this I'm planning to do. I'm pretty much making it up as I go along. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The circle tower doesn't change: old stone walls illuminated by lanterns, shadows dancing along the carpet, apprentice feet wearing out their boots. The same faces buried in books and gossiping, as they find ways to pass the endless stretches of time.

Anya twirls a long strand of her coiled black hair between two fingers as she absentmindedly sketches spirals and flowers in the margin of her notes -anything to make the material more interesting.

“Hey, Annie, what's the difference between Salubirous Embrium and Dark Embrium again?”

Jowan’s bony spine pushes into Anya's back as he leans into her. She turns her head to meet his gaze, her eyes poking through her curls.

 With a sigh, Anya pages through the pile of vellum on her lap, searching for a particular page. “I don't think I have that. I must have missed it.”

She hears a groan as he slumps over his notes. “I was afraid you'd say that. You know Enchanter Wynne is going to skin my hide if I don't come up with better scores on my herbalism exam this month. I think she's still bitter about that time we snuck into the wine cabinet in the senior mage quarters.”

“‘We’?” she repeats with a scoff. "That one was all you and Anders. _I_ was actually telling you all how much of a bad idea it was.”

Jowan snorts. “Yeah, isn’t that what you told Wynne when she found you passed out and curled into a ball in the chapel? You were sprawled over a pew, sobbing uncontrollably because you thought Andraste was mad at you.”

With a huff, she pushes all her notes off of her lap and turns around, climbing up Jowan’s back until she was slumped over his shoulder. “Hey!” he cries out. “What in Andraste’s name are you doing?”

Anya reaches down and grabs his notes while he’s preoccupied and swiftly sits back down, flipping through the pages. “We were talking about Embrium for two periods. Surely _one_ of us has something on it.” She furrows her eyes as she scans the looping ink on the parchment. A fundamental difference between her notes and Jowan’s is how absolutely filthy the Jowan’s are. Anything from ink blots to scorch marks could be found on the margins and between the lines. His handwriting, if indeed it even could be considered writing, is a mess of what she can only assume are abbreviations and illegible squiggles that must at one point in Jowan’s mind have resembled actual words.

Slowly, the expression on Anya’s face darkens, almost as though a stormcloud had manifested itself right above her head. Her hands tremble as they hand the notes back to Jowan. “You… You live like this?” she asks him, her tone dripping in a heavy blend of horror and melancholy.

With a scowl, he snatches his pages from her. “Ha ha, Annie.”

She cackles, her face disappearing in her torrent of hair as she doubles over. “We’re both going to fail,” she remarks, still grinning in amusement.

“Both?” He eyes her suspiciously, raising an inquisitive bushy brow. “You always say that right before you get the highest score in class.”

 

* * *

Jowan is right of course. He always is when it comes to predicting tragedies. He’d be bitter, but Anya doesn’t wave her successes in his face, and he appreciates it.

It’s late and the library in the apprentice quarters is near vacant, save for a pair of young templars who are sending each other pleading glances from opposite sides of the chamber. While the presence of the steel clad soldiers makes Jowan uncomfortable, he has to admit that standing at attention watching mages run amok in their gilded cage doesn’t sound very appealing. It looks rather boring. With all the power templars are given, they’re in a cage, too; a bigger cage, but still a cage.

He raises his brow at the templar standing nearest to them, looking like he’s suffocating in his helmet. The templar tries to remain motionless, but cocks their head to the side nonetheless, acknowledging Jowan’s acknowledgement in a way.

His attention turns to Anya, who’s sitting crosslegged on the ground by his side, hiking up her robes so she’s not as restricted. Underneath the robes, her legs are bare, aside from dark knee-length stockings. Her fingers deftly weave through her hair, creating small and intricate braids as she rambles aimlessly.

Jowan eyes the templar again. If he didn’t know any better, he could have sworn that the guard was desperately trying not to look at them, while also guarding them. The mage smirks at the thought.

“Jay, are you even listening?” Anya scolds.

“No,” he replies without thinking, earning a sharp slap at the back of his neck. “Wh- Hey!” he cries out.

Anya purses her lips in a way that very much makes her look like a kitten. It doesn’t help that she has a giant cloud of curly hair framing her thin face -not to mention the fact that her hair, Maker knows how, ends up covering every surface, provided she’s near it for longer than a minute.

“I was _saying_ Amell just passed her Harrowing,” she tells him.

“Who? Miriam? Seriously?” he replies. “Doesn’t she come from a family of mages or something?”

She shrugs. “She hasn’t shut up about it, though. I saw her today parading around the apprentice quarters in her shiny new mage robes. I think she’s doing it to annoy the templars.”

Jowan let out a snort of laughter. “She _would_ do that.”

“It’s annoying _me_ , though,” she grumbles. “At least she’s moving up to the senior mage quarters so I never have to see her smug face again.”

He yawns and leans back against the wall, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer. “Until you get Harrowed. Then you’ll have to see her everyday.”

Anya huffs and drops her head on Jowan’s shoulder. “Ew.”

He laughs again and absentmindedly rubs her arm. “Can you imagine us as full mages though? We might even get to leave the tower.”

She finishes another braid, moving onto the next. “I don’t want to leave, though. It’s cozy here.” Her voice reveals a hint of drowsiness as she shuts her eyes.

“Then I’ll leave,” he replies, “Maybe I’ll open one of those magical shops. Maybe in Amaranthine… I’d live in a little cottage by the coast.”

“With your templar housemate,” Anya adds with a dark laugh.

Jowan groans. “Oh, we’d _loathe_ each other at first, but slowly we’d both come around.”

“It would be the greatest love story of this age,” she gushes. “One day, you’d make breakfast for them, and it tastes just like their mother’s food.”

“I’d walk out to the garden and find them training in their smallclothes by the light of the dawn, and I’d try to deny the attraction, but it would be there.”

“Then on a late night, you’re sitting at the dining table reading a book in the candlelight, and you’d ask them to come sit with you.”

“And I’d find out about how they were bullied by the other templar recruits, but with me, they feel like they have a sense of purpose.”

“You have to ask them, would they truly kill you if it came down to it, and your templar hesitates.”

“We share our first kiss that night, in the light of the candle.”

“You both don’t know what to make of it. It’s so sudden and so new, but by the Maker, it feels so right!”

“But alas! I’d accidentally let the book touch the candle!”

“And in typical Jowan fashion, you drop the book on your wooden table, which ignites a flame that catches both you and your templar off-guard!”

“We try to escape, but the doors and windows have been blocked by flames at this point.”

“You both start to accept your fate. You gaze wistfully at each other, knowing that if you die on this night, you’re dying with the person you love.”

“I rather like that! Death by flames, just like Andraste.”

“Didn’t Andraste die by Hessarian’s blade, though?”

“Shut up! I knew that!”

Anya snorts. “No, you didn’t!”

“Did too!”

At this point, their voices are getting louder and louder, as they struggle to stifle their own laughter. Anya has given up on her braids and succumbed to her fatigue, leaning against Jowan’s shoulder.

“Y’know, Jay, if you ever left the tower, I’d feel so lonely,” she finally says, still catching her breath.

“I’d be pretty lonely, too, if I ever had to leave you,” he admits, tightening his grip on her.

His gaze travels to that templar again, who has crossed their arms now, but is still watching them. There aren’t many other mages in the library at this time of night anyway. He wonders if they had been paying attention to his and Anya’s conversation. It’s hard to remember that these formidable warriors weren’t just inanimate, faceless statues.

He feels Anya shift against his side, snuggling up against him. She’s clearly falling asleep, and knowing that the templars would throw a fit if they sleep anywhere but the sleeping quarters, he nudges her gently.

“Do you wanna get to bed?”

“Can’t we just sleep here?” she grumbles, her arm draping itself around his front, like she’s clutching a pillow. “It’s already warm here, and my bed’s cold.”

Jowan begrudgingly pries her arms off of his body and gets to his feet, dragging Anya up as well. “You’ll break your neck sleeping here,” he tells her. “C’mon, Annie, let’s go.”

Anya glares at him through narrow eyes. She pushes him weakly and lurches forward like a living corpse. “Fine. You’re boring anyway.”

At that, Jowan shares another look with the silent templar, and for just a moment, he sees the steel shoulder pauldrons rise and fall in a shrug. The mage shakes his head dismissively, jogging to catch up with Anya, who has made her way halfway through the library and already collided with two tables.

The templar sighs, watching the rowdy duo finally exit. He has to admit, the two of them have made his watch slightly more interesting. He hasn’t been stationed at Kinloch Hold for more than a week, though he doubts the apprentices would even notice whenever a new templar showed up. They must all seem like identical steel soldiers to them.

He feels a tap on his shoulder as his replacement shows up. “Slow day, eh?” the second templar tells him. “Thank the Maker Jowan didn’t blow anything up today.”

The first templar grins tentatively under his helmet. “Does that happen often?”

The second let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, you don’t even know.” Slapping the first templar’s shoulder again, he adds, “Good work today, Cullen. Now go get some sleep.”


	2. Anya goes on an Adventure and makes a fool of herself in front of Andraste and the Maker

“This is a bad idea,” Anya mumbles, her poofy head peeking around an archway into a darkened hall.

“Noted,” a feminine voice replies from the other side of the archway.

A third voice hyperventilates into Anya’s shoulder. “First Enchanter Irving is going to kill me.”

“Nobody  _ asked  _ you to come, Jowan.”

“Actually, I distinctly remember you manipulating him into coming, Amell. Don’t try to weasel your way out of this,” Anya retorts.

Miriam tsks and flicks her golden locks over her shoulder. “Details, details.” She hooks her slender, manicured fingers around the stone arch. “Now, shut up and keep an eye out for that second patrol.”

“What if they think we’re trying to escape?” Jowan hisses, pressing his back so hard into the wall that he looked like he was trying to phase through it.

Miriam rolls her eyes. “Yes, because if I were trying to escape the Circle, I would run _directly into the Templar Quarters._ ”

Anya shrugs with a snort. “I dunno. Templars are pretty dumb.”

With a thoughtful little glance at the ground, Miriam grins slyly. She briskly shakes her head and looks back into the Great Hall. The main chamber is completely empty save for a pair of templars standing at attention by the door to the staircase.

“Now what?” Anya says.

“Now, follow my lead.”

“And if we get caught?”

“You’re a pretty girl; you’ll think of something.” Miriam winks. Anya doesn’t quite like the implication hidden beneath that statement.

“What about me?” Jowan asks.

Miriam shrugs. “I mean, you might make a pretty girl, too…”

He sighs. “Just forget it.”

“Stay close, and we won’t have to worry about getting caught,” she tells him.

She then straightens up, adjusts her robe and pats down her hair. She grins briefly at the nervous pair of apprentices before stepping into the center chamber with long, confident strides. Multiple tall, slender shadows dance along the floor almost as though they were scurrying after her.

After exchanging a look, Jowan and Anya lean into the doorway, anticipating Miriam’s next actions.

“Halt,” one of the templars calls out, holding out a hand. Anya takes the time to note how pretentious it is that they all wear their helmets when they're on duty. It makes everything so impersonal and she would feel much more comfortable if she could be certain there were people underneath those over-sized steel buckets.

“Cedric, it’s just me,” Miriam says with familiarity. Her voice isn’t very loud, but the tower manages to amplify it enough that the apprentices can still hear her. “You know, it’s been a while since I caught up with you.” Her entire body leans into the knight, her hands climbing up his chestplate and tracing the sword of mercy emblazoned on the front.

Cedric relaxes his stance and raises a gauntlet to gently stroke the side of Miriam’s head. “What are you up to, Dollface?” he croons, clearly not buying the act that Miriam is putting on.

The second templar shifts in place, watching the exchange completely silently. The candlelight reflecting off of his armor makes Hessarian’s sword appear as though it were actually on fire.

“What makes you think I’m up to something, Ceddy?” she says in a low, seductive voice. Her finger is now playing with the underside of his helmet.

Cedric doesn’t even have a chance to say anything when his partner finally breaks his silence, his voice shattering the mood like a bucket of ice water. “Cedric, is the room spinning?” he says uncertainly, stepping away from his post to look around the room. He approaches the four outward facing statues at the center of the hall, eyeing them with callous suspicion.

“What in the Maker’s name are you on about, Airik?” Cedric grumbles, gently prying Miriam’s hands off of him and following his partner’s gaze.

“It’s singing to me, Ced; swear to the Maker, the stone is singing!” Airik remarks, placing a hand on the worn stone shield cautiously. He then takes off his helmet and places his ear against the stone.

“What are you? A dwarf?” Cedric pulls Airik away from the statue. “Get up! We have a job to do!” A particularly aggressive tug has Airik losing his balance and toppling back onto the hard ground.

“It’s  _ beautiful.  _ Like fair maidens singing in the garden. Maybe it’s Andraste. Maybe she’s telling me something.” Airik looks past Cedric, who is now leaning over him with a puzzled expression on his face, and gazes dreamily into the darkness of the ceiling. Cedric has absolutely no doubt that Andraste is not hiding in the ceiling, but the way Airik is smiling, it almost seems like she might be. Knowing Airik, the Maker’s bride is likely also in a state of undress, beckoning him to her shapely bosom.

“Or maybe you’re an idiot. Ever considered that?” Cedric snaps, grabbing Airik’s bicep to pull him up. “Now get up, you stupid oaf.” What Airik lacks in intelligence, he more than makes up for in sheer brawn, and Cedric has to expend a great deal of strength to drag the man off of the ground and back to his feet.

With a heavy sigh, Cedric turns around, ready to shoo Miriam away, only to find the hall completely empty. His eyes dart around the room, searching every shadow before landing on the staircase he had completely abandoned. “Andraste’s tits…”

 

* * *

Now safe in the Templar Armory, Miriam laughs in relief as she slides down against the door. Casting an illusion hex on Airik while Cedric was distracted had been child’s play for her. She only wishes she could have seen the look on Cedric’s face when he found out.

“What if someone comes in?” Jowan asks. He’s beginning to reach levels of unprecedentedly high anxiety -so high, in fact, that even the level-headed Anya is beginning to feel her hair stand on end just by standing adjacent to him.

“Oh,  _ relax _ !” Miriam says dismissively, bracing herself against the wall as she got back to her feet. “The hard part’s over.” After mulling her words over, she breaks out in a fit of giggles. “Or, you know, the least easy part.”

“‘Least easy’?” Anya frowns. “You hexed a Templar! And besides, I don’t see why you couldn’t have brought Finn with you instead and left us out of this.”

With a groan, Miriam replies, “Finn would have panicked and blown our cover. I needed someone more discrete.”

Rolling her eyes, Anya remarks, “You wanted discretion, so you asked  _ Jowan _ ?”

“Yeah!” Jowan agrees, and then, after a moment of deliberation, adds, “Wait. What’s that supposed to mean?” Both of the women ignore him as they continue to bicker in the way only two people who have lived together for 12 years could.

Jowan’s seen this scene nearly a thousand times. It’s just like the time Anya found out Miriam was the best swimmer in the circle (before Anders tried to escape and had outdoors time cancelled). It’s also like the time Miriam out-scored Anya in their placement exams last year. Not to mention the time Wynne selected Miriam as her apprentice in creation magic, while Anya had to focus on primal spells with Senior Enchanter Sweeney. She still thinks about the freezy chair every time she sees Miriam’s smug face.

“Why don’t you have to wear templar armor?” Anya complains, holding up a helmet which must weigh as much as half of Anya’s own weight judging by the way she slouches while carrying it.

“You and Jowan are still apprentices. You can’t be seen in the Templar Quarters. But as a harrowed mage, I could get away with it if I had a pair of templars escorting me.”

Swallowing their complaints, Jowan and Anya help each other into the bulky armor and stand before Miriam’s judgmental eye. She inspects them carefully, straightening them out or adjusting the straps before nodding and smiling.

“It’s too big,” Anya’s voice comes muffled through the helmet. It is, in fact, too big. Anya is small, even by elven standards, and the fabric draped over her greaves is pooled around her feet, making her look a lot like a child trying out their father’s armor.

Jowan snorts. “That’s what she said,” he says quietly. Thankfully, the the helmet makes it so that Anya can’t hear him, which saves him from an extra painful smack on the head from her gauntlet.

“What? It’s perfect!” Miriam remarks rather ignorantly. “I think you both look rather strapping. Now are we ready to head out?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Jowan replies. Anya is conspicuously silent.

 

* * *

The trio’s destination is the Templar Common Room adjacent to the dorms, and upon entering, not many bat an eye at Miriam in her mage robes leading two clunky templars along behind her.

The common room is devoid of life at this time of night, with its only occupants being a pair of older gentlemen playing a game of chess, a younger man studying at a table, surrounded by old tomes, and a couple of fresh recruits huddled in a corner on a set of cushions. Thankfully, whatever Miriam is planning doesn’t require disturbing any of them.

The trio make a beeline for a well-maintained bookshelf in the corner of the room, and Miriam all but flings herself at it, running her fingers down the spines and skimming through the titles.

“What are you looking for?” Anya hisses, trying to keep her voice down.

Not tearing her eyes off the books, Miriam answers, “It’s a Varric Tethras original. Highly recommended in the latest issue of the Randy Dowager Quarterly. Carroll told me they’d be shipping a copy here to the circle. I had to have it before anyone else!”

“Of course you did,” Anya mumbles.

“Isn’t Tethras that guy who writes trashy smut? Why are you making us risk coming here for that garbage?” Jowan says, his eyes darting around to make sure none of the idle templars heard him.

Miriam groans and rolls her eyes. “See -that’s what Anders said. But once he makes it big, you’ll eat your words!”

“Isn’t Anders in solitary right now? How did you get him to weigh in on this?” Anya inquires.

For a moment, Miriam ignores her as she deshelved a new-looking, leather-bound book with an illustration of a blonde woman in an elegant gown at a masked ball. “I have my ways,” she replies mysteriously.

Jowan and Anya decide that it’s best to simply leave it at that. Miriam has a way with getting what she wants at the circle, and today is no different. The two apprentices are simply her tool of choice for this evening -one of many, because it’s dangerous to reuse her tools too often.

Out of the corner of her eye, Anya reads a familiar name on one of the old books on the shelves. “Wait a minute…” she says, grabbing Miriam by the nook of her elbow as Miriam turns to leave.

“What?”

“This is  _ In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar  _ by Ferdinand Genitivi!” Anya gushes, pulling the book hastily out of its place in the shelf. “They told me we couldn’t get this for our library! And the templars get to have it? Completely unfair!”

“Um… Anya?”

She opens the book to the first chapter and scans the page anxiously. “Maker’s breath! It’s more wonderful than I could have hoped! And so well maintained! It’s almost as if nobody has even touched it.”

Jowan places a hand on Anya’s pauldron to get her attention as their antics have managed to catch the steady gaze of one of the older templars in the room. He begins to rise from his seat, and Jowan’s heart rate rises with him -and Jowan isn’t the only one who’s noticed; Miriam is also eyeing the man carefully, clutching her book to her chest.

“You three,” the templar utters gruffly, standing alert and glaring at them. “What are you up to?” This is what finally pries Anya’s attention away from her prize.

Miriam can sense the man’s suspicion increasing, and rather than risk explaining her way out of this, she gives her companions two meaningful glances and cries, “SCATTER!”

Jowan and Anya don’t need to be told twice. In their clunky armor, the two dash out of the room, with Miriam quickly gaining a lead. Each of them runs in a different direction in the circular spire, hoping to meet up again at the staircase.

Anya is dead last, carrying her templar skirts and stumbling through the halls. She can feel her heart beating in her throat as she tries to carry not only herself and her Genitivi novel, but also the grievously heavy armor she’s wearing.

The doors begin to blur into each other as she passes them, and eventually, she fears that the templars are right at her heels. Each door becomes more tempting than the next, but also more dangerous. She begins to consider hiding to get them off her trail, but she has no guarantee that whatever room she enters will be empty. She tries to curse Miriam under her breath, but finds that it’s only a waste of her precious oxygen.

Without thinking, she curses, pushes open the nearest door, and slips inside with as much grace as she can muster in spite of all the extra bulk she’s carrying. The door shuts behind her gently and she leans against the door, catching her breath.

In her panic, she doesn’t hear the startled gasp and hiss of pain as a young man rises from his bed and slams his head into the top bunk. Wincing in pain, he watches her straighten up and become aware of her surroundings.

“Who -Who are you?” he asks, still rubbing his forehead gingerly.

Anya can feel her heart sink into the pit of her stomach. She’s been caught. At least it’s only one, though. Her mind wanders to Miriam’s advice from earlier and her stomach flips uncomfortably. The templar is still watching her expectantly. If worst comes to worst, he isn’t exactly a bad looking templar. He’s around Anya’s age with a mop of golden curls on his head, a boyish face, and eyes that are an uncannily pretty shade of hazel. Not that Anya is paying attention to that… of course not.

“I… do beg your pardon, Ser Templar…” she whimpers, pulling the helmet off of her head. “My name is Anya.”

The templar is taken aback with the softness of her voice, and even more taken aback by the large mess of curls that has just emerged from the helmet, taking on a life of its own as soon as it’s freed from captivity. He feels a blush begin to rise to his cheeks.

“I -I -That is…” He struggles to make himself sound commanding and knight-like. “I’m Cullen,” he sputters eventually.

“Pleasure…” she replies, not making eye contact with him. Her mind is still running with the advice Miriam gave her earlier. Could she really? With this man? He looks like he’s never even touched a girl in his entire life, but Miriam once told her that all men, no matter what, only want one thing. Is it really that simple?

_ Oh, dear Maker…  _

As Cullen ponders what a real templar’s reaction to this scenario should be, Anya has already begun to strip off her armor until all of it has been tossed to the side and she’s only in her simple apprentice robes.

She takes a deep breath and steps closer to the bed, meeting his eyes and gazing firmly into his eyes. “I would appreciate it,” she begins slowly, “if you didn’t tell anyone I was here.” Her hands move to the laces on the collar of her robes. With a practiced motion, the laces come undone and the robe begins to slide down her shoulders.

Cullen’s breath hitches as his eyes unintentionally wander over her lithe elven body, which is all but staring him in the face right now, and now his cheeks have gone from being lightly stained pink to burning bright red in less than a second.

“S-Sweet Maker! Please put your clothes back on!”

It only takes a moment for embarrassment to turn into complete and utter mortification as Anya grabs handfuls of her hair and covers her face, stumbling away from him. “Oh! I’m so sorry!”

“It’s uhh…” Cullen turns his face to the wall. His training had prepared him for many things, but being seduced by a beautiful apprentice is absolutely not one of them. He can hear so many of the Chantry’s warnings on repeat in his head as he tries to get the supple curve of her hips and the flawless bronze skin of her soft belly- “Oh, Maker…” -out of his head.

“I’m dressed again,” she informs him in a tiny voice.

He faces her again, this time struggling to meet her eyes. “Right, erm. What in the Maker’s name possessed you to do that? And what are you doing in here?”

She chews anxiously on her bottom lip as she walks over to where she had discarded the armor and gently cradles a large book, a precious and rare collection of Genitivi’s adventures. “I thought if I tried to -well, you know -maybe you wouldn’t report me for sneaking in and stealing this.” She holds the book out reluctantly; she’s not sure if she’ll even be able to relinquish it at this point. “I’m sorry! I’m ready for whatever punishment the Knight Commander wants to give me!”

Cullen’s expression softens as he gets to his feet and takes the novel from her hands. He opens it carefully and leafs through it curiously. “I’ve read this one,” he finally says. “It’s a good read. The way Genitivi writes, it’s as if you’re going on an adventure all your own.”

A lump forms in Anya’s throat as she hears this. Of course, she knows it’s a good read. She’s only wanted to read this book for the past two years. She’s had to make do with the boring apprentice library for her entire life.

“You should read it for yourself, though.”

She doubts what she’s hearing at first, but those dreamy hazel eyes contain no traces of mockery or trickery. He sounds absolutely serious as he holds the book out for her in his outstretched hand.

“Wait. Are you serious?”

Cullen clears his throat, startled by how quickly Anya’s catlike eyes brighten. Her entire demeanor completely changes when she retrieves the book and hugs it to her chest.

“Yes, you can have it.”

She sways idly in place for a few seconds before her entire body freezes. “And what about my punishment? Aren’t you going to report me to Knight Commander Greagoir?”

He smiles shyly. “I won’t tell if you won’t. Now allow me to escort you back to your room, Anya”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit longer than the last chapter... Though I doubt my chapters will have any kind of uniform length. It will just depend on what I feel like writing.
> 
> Also can I just tell you, I just really enjoy writing about Miriam Amell. I hope you like her, too :)


	3. Anya dreams of Nugs, Boats, and Kings

“Do you think nugs know they're nugs?”

“What?”

“Like in the grand scheme of things. Do you think they know they're hairless rodents that that serve absolutely no evolutionary purpose?”

“Why in the Maker’s name are you asking me that?”

Anya shifts in the bed to face Jowan, feeling the heat of his breath on her nose. “You're no fun at all.”

Jowan narrows his eyes at her, tightening his grip on the heavy druffalo hide blanket draped over their bodies, sheathing the duo in an oppressive heat. It smells the crystal grace oil Anya puts in her hair and the veal they had for dinner.

“So what do you think?” she asks.

“About?”

“Nugs.”

Jowan groans incredulously. “I didn't realize I had to have a fully informed opinion regarding nugs.”

Anya smiles lazily and giggles. “Nugs are cute, though. Useless, but cute.”

Jowan sighs and turns over onto his back. “You know they're not completely useless. You could eat nugs if you wanted. I hear they taste pretty good.”

She grunts and shoves her elbow into his arm. “No. Nothing bad should ever happen to them!”

Their hushed whispers are the only sounds in the nearly empty dorm room. One of their roommates, an elven apprentice named Eadric, is buried under his own blankets, silently reading or studying hiding a small wisp of light under the sheets. He isn’t known to interact with many of the other apprentices, with Anya and a couple of the other elves being the only exceptions. Anya prefers Jowan’s company, but Eadric is still a good studying partner. He always seems to know so much about everything.

The rest of the apprentices are elsewhere, likely in the common room or the library. There had been rumors of an older mage being transferred to the circle from Jainen, however, and it wouldn’t be surprising if many of the younger mages are currently crowding curiously around them in an attempt find out more about the outside world.

Anya inches away from Jowan briefly and twists her entire upper half back, in a surprising show of flexibility, to reach underneath the bed. She kicks her legs involuntarily as she paws at the floor.

“Ouch! Hey, watch it!” Jowan complains, kicking her back.

Completely ignoring him, Anya twists back around, nearly toppling over the side of the bed in the process. She nearly throws the book in her hands at Jowan's face.

“This book has an entry on nugs in Orzammar,” she informs him, flipping through the pages until she finds a detailed illustration of the creature. “They're marvellous, aren't they?”

Jowan leans into her, eyeing the page curiously. “They're just nugs. Used to show up on my parents farm and eat their berries.”

“You've seen one?” she asks, turning her head to face him, eyes glimmering with stars.

“They're not that special,” he tells her uncertainly. He doesn't want to be the one to tell her that the world outside the circle isn't some fantastic mystery. Sometimes things are just things -nothing wonderful about them.

“You’re just saying that because you’re boring,” she insists, pouting at him. “I bet they’re precious little creatures that deserve love and snuggles.”  

With a hesitant sigh, Jowan rolls out of bed and away from the comfort of the thick sheets. He straightens out his robes and says, “Alright, get up. I wanna show you something.”

She lets out a satisfied moan as she stretches her limbs and shifts herself to the middle of the bed, cuddling with her book. “Your dick?”

He stares at her quizzically, mouth hanging agape. “Wh… What are… Why would… No, I'm not going to show you my dick.”

She shrugs and tilts her head nonchalantly. “I had to check.”

“I hate you.”

 

* * *

 

Jowan leads them down the familiar corridors of the apprentice quarters, up into the senior mage quarters, and tentatively into the great hall. The pitter patter of their slippers against the floor and the whisperings of distant conversations fill the silence between them. And Anya still hasn't forgotten what happened the last time she snuck in.

Jowan slips through a door into one of the studies. A couple of enchanters are quietly discussing a book that’s placed on a pedestal between them, and a group of templars are leaning casually against the wall with their helmets off. 

A couple of the templars shoot inquisitive looks towards the door on impulse upon hearing it open. It is towards these Templars that Jowan leads them, and Anya stumbles after him hesitantly as if sloshing through knee-depth water. She wants to ask what exactly they’re doing, but holds her tongue. The deep hum of the templars’ idle chatter mutes as the two mages approach.

The three templar faces are familiar to Anya, all of them being young men who have been stationed at Kinloch Hold for at least six years. The oldest of the three is Cedric Cousland, a man with soft-looking chestnut hair tied back in a loose ponytail. He has a handsome face with a strong jaw covered in stubble and a pair of full lips, pulled taut in a huge smile. He’s the one that greets Jowan and Anya warmly when he recognizes them.

“What brings you kids here?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

Jowan raises a hand to scratch the back of his head nervously as he looks up at the imposing men. “I was hoping you could take us somewhere,” he replies, attempting to smile back reluctantly and ending up with an expression that’s more of a strange mix of surprise and discomfort.

Anya is unsure what is going on, and her confusion only increases when a knowing expression flashes over Cedric’s face. For a moment, she feels like she’s going to her own funeral.

Or… perhaps something not quite so dramatic.

As the three of them walk past the somber statues lining the walls, Cedric makes idle conversation, asking them if they’re comfortable and inquiring about their exams. Anya can’t help but admire the man’s face. Delicate laugh lines form at the corners of his eyes as he looks down at Jowan, seeming to be genuinely engaged in his responses. It doesn’t really surprise her that so many apprentices are infatuated with him. For a templar, he has managed to build up a reputation among the mages of a man that actually put in an effort to get to know his charges.

They all enter the templar quarters, with Jowan and Anya meekly shuffling along behind Cedric like criminals with something to hide. Cedric struts through like he owns the place, because of course he does, greeting his colleagues on the way through, passing out cheeky grins.

The group halts in front of a set of rusting metal doors, leaking icy perspiration. Like a tour guide, Cedric faces them with an outstretched hand. “Well, kids, we're here.”

“Where's ‘here’ exactly?” Anya asks, tempted to touch the unfamiliar door, but not wanting to overstep.

Cedric gives Jowan a suggestive look before he says, “Close your eyes.” 

She narrows her eyes at the boys, pursing her lips and crossing her arms. 

“Please?” Cedric adds, batting his eyelashes, which proves to be more infuriatingly cute than it has any right to be.

She huffs impatiently and tightly shuts her eyes. “Fine. You'd better not be trying to secretly murder me.”

She can hear Jowan sputter in disbelief. “Why would you even think that?”

Anya giggles and shrugs. “Because you've always been jealous of my pretty elven eyes.”

“That's ridiculous,” he retorts flatly. “You're ridiculous.”

Cedric glances thoughtfully in Jowan’s direction. “She makes a valid point. She  _ does _ have very lovely eyes. Though, you should know that if you do try to murder her, my vows would compel me to intervene.” He indicates the insignia on his chest with a chuckle.

“Oh, shove off, Cousland. Just open the door.”

She feels a gentle pair of hands on her shoulders and hears the rusty parts of the door struggling against each other. Then she feels a chill come over her entire body as though someone had just cast a weak blizzard spell nearby. Jowan pushes her forward and she blindly allows herself to be led forward.

Without her sense of sight, she's forced to use her other senses: touch, sound, and smell. Her hands pass through frigid and damp air and she becomes more aware of the droplets of sweat along her hairline. She can smell the familiar essence of dust mixed with a scent she can't quite place. It smells nostalgic and it smells like druffalo and wheat and water. Best of all, she can hear the unmistakable sound of trees blowing in the wind and rain beating against the stone.

Her heart swells and her eyes start to sting. “Jowan?” she calls out, plastering her hands to her face and turning to face him, wide eyes brimming with tears.

He's smiling timidly at her and idly rubbing his shoulder. “Happy birthday, Anya.”

Anya's eyes briefly pass over Cedric, who is standing by the door arms crossed and looking very content with himself. She then jumps at Jowan, hooking her short arms under his arms and wrapping them around his back. He'd gotten much taller than her since his growth spurt, so her head rests on top of his chest. “Thank you.” she mumbles into his robes, only marginally conscious of her tears leaving marks on the fabric.

It isn't truly her birthday, of course, as she, like many other mages in the tower, doesn't actually know when she was born, but she and Jowan celebrated on the anniversary of the day that she arrived at the circle; it's the only day that Jowan has managed to successfully remember for twelve years without fail. All Anya knows about her birth is that she was born under a great, big, blue sky, underneath a giant tree probably -or at least she hopes so.

She unlatches herself from Jowan and scurries to the wrought iron balcony railing, getting up on the tips of her toes to look down at the lake and at the distant shore. She can see the trees shivering in the storm and the warm lights shining through the windows of the inn by the docks. It’s not exactly the most beautiful view, but it makes her heart heavy with want.

“Cedric… Will I ever get to leave?”

Her voice is small and Cedric can tell she’s trying to sound much stronger than she is. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. He fulfills his duty to Andraste with pride, but even he can tell, just by looking at Anya’s face, that Andraste would have wanted more than imprisonment for mages.

“Maker willing, you will,” he tells her. It’s all he can say with good conscience.

She doesn’t say anything in response and simply crosses her arms and rests them upon the high railing, laying her chin on top of her crossed wrists as she stares thoughtfully into the distance. She imagines herself in a peasant dress, dancing barefoot along the shoreline of Lake Calenhad. She dreams of running through the embrium weeds and feeling the mud between her toes, and the wind blowing through her hair.

She wants to run from here to the Waking Sea and sail a ship across the water. She wants to see the magnificent Tevinter architecture of Kirkwall, and walk through a bustling marketplace in Antiva. She wants to explore ceremonial Nevarran burial sites and meet a Rivaini pirate. She would even want to walk through the deserts of Seheron and have tea with a Qunari. She once read that Qunari tea is second-to-none, with its strong bitter taste, made of rare herbs native to Seheron that are said to cleanse your soul as well as your body.

It’s just another flight of fancy, though, and she knows that. Yet she still thinks about that little shop in Denerim with Jowan. Somewhere across all that water and over those hills is Denerim, or at least that’s what she’s read. She once met a mage from Denerim who said he actually met King Cailan, and another mage from Denerim who informed everyone that the first mage was full of shit. She wonders what it would be like to meet a king, though. She probably never will.

The three of them are protected from the rain by the roof of the balcony, but Anya makes sure to jut her head out just enough that the raindrops kiss her nose as they fall. The rain is cool against her skin and its soft hiss drowns out all her fears for a short time. For a while, she’s content to quietly dream, and for a while, Cedric and Jowan are content to let her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This kinda made me sad to write. She does eventually meet King Cailan I suppose. Though it's not exactly a very fun occasion.


	4. Jowan is a Huge Klutz Idiot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a doozy to write. Not because it was particularly difficult, but because it's hot garbage in the best way.  
> This is heavily based on a CollegeHumor video called "Grant is a Huge Klutz Idiot" and there's absolutely no originality past that -just me and my desire to see Jowan fall on his ass. (I swear I love him, but I couldn't help myself)

The dining hall in Kinloch Hold, where mages and templars alike dine, converse, and pass time, occupies a floor all on its own. The hall is one of the areas of the hold that has remained nearly unchanged after the tower was converted to a circle of magi. The sturdy wooden tables and benches, which once seated the bottoms of old soldiers, are now covered by colorful quilts, handwoven by generations of apprentices. Some of the old light fixtures had worn out and fallen over the centuries, but for the most part, the hall has remained rather well-maintained.

It smells heavily of stew and beef as over a dozen pots of warm food are laid out along several tables, being heated by magically maintained flames. Hundreds of mages and templars crowd around, trying to fill up their plates. This is the typical sight at dinner -and it’s probably why the senior mages and highly ranked templars all dine elsewhere.

Sometimes, Anya wishes she could dine with them. Normally, she tries to sneak out of dinner and have it after everyone has already finished, but last time she did, she was caught by a rather imposing templar with a wide jaw and a face dotted with acne -his name is either Leonard or Larry… maybe Larry? She can see him eyeing her from across the room as he waits his turn in the messy dinner queue. Anya has opted to reserve a seat and wait the queue out.

With a long sigh, she pulls out a notebook and quill and begins to scribble aimlessly. She catches Larry quirking his brow at her and sticks her tongue out in retaliation. He sticks his tongue out back. It’s really the most riveting conversation she’s had all day. She looks down at her notebook and scribbles a very badly drawn Larry, with sharp monstrous teeth and spiky inky black hair, making sure to sketch in his templar armor and something that vaguely resembles a shield in his hand -she even writes Larry on top so nobody can mistake him for anyone else. She proceeds to draw in a smaller, elven figure beside him, shooting lightning out of her staff, and she connects the lightning to the templar, even going as far to trace Larry’s figure with little zigzag lines. Below that, she draws another scene, a tiny frog with angry eyes, waving its fist and yelling, and the elf -that’s Anya, in case you weren’t sure -hunched over in laughter. It’s crude, but it gets the job done.

“I didn’t know you were an artist,” someone says, nearly scaring her skeleton out of her skin, and making her pen slip across the paper, connecting the doodle’s feet to the edge of the page by a thin black line.

“Maker’s balls!” she curses and turns around.

Curly hair and amber eyes -it’s Cullen, looking slightly horrified. “I -erm -I’m sorry for scaring you,” he says sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. “Is this seat taken?” He gestures to the seat to her right. Most of the tables are empty as most everyone is awaiting their meals, but Cullen has chosen the one right beside her. 

She still feels so embarrassed about the night they met -so much so that the mere thought nearly makes her entire body spasm and fills her with the uncontrollable desire to tear her arms off of her body and shove the into her eyes. It’s a bit of a graphic fantasy, but Anya is nothing if not creative.

“Take a seat,” she says, smirking and looking back at her masterpiece. She puts her pen to the parchment and tries to salvage it, drawing a shabby background -a cabin in the woods, where she lives with her mother -wherever her mother is.

She feels the bench shift as Cullen settles in place beside her. He leans over, ringlets of his pretty straw colored hair falling over his eyes as he inspects Anya’s drawing. “His name is Liam, you know,” he says, bracing his elbow on the table and resting his head against his palm.

Anya feels his gaze on her and frowns, ruffled. “You must be joking. That’s Larry.”

“ _ Liam, _ ” he corrects her.

She scoffs at him and points to the word “Larry” written in crooked block letters on the page. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It says right here that he’s Larry.”

He snorts and looks away, a smile forming at his lips. “I’m not so sure about that.”

Anya rolls her eyes, spotting Amell loitering by a nearby table with a plate full of food. She seems preoccupied, so Anya sees an opportunity, blurting out, “Oi! Amell!” in the hopes that perhaps she would be startled.

Unfortunately, Miriam Amell is not only devastatingly beautiful, but also devastatingly graceful, and without batting an eyelash, she turns around with a polite smile and walks over to them. “Anya, darling, did you need something?”

What Anya needs is to throw Miriam’s plate at her perfect little face -she decides not to say that, though. She points down at her sketch and states, “That’s Larry, right?”

Miriam lets out a thoughtful sigh, placing her dish on the table and taking a seat. “Hmm… Dark hair? Body shaped like a rectangle?”

Anya nods enthusiastically. “Yes!”

“Oh, no, Sweetling; that’s definitely Liam.”

Anya turns to Cullen who has a smug smile on his face and sticks her tongue out. “Don’t be an ass.”

Before Cullen can react, however, Anya spots Jowan out of the corner of her eye, coming from the buffet with several plates precariously stacked on top of each other. He seems to be struggling as he waddles slowly towards their table. A mischievous grin spreads across Anya’s face as she nudges Cullen and Amell and nods in Jowan’s direction.

“Wait for it.”

The look on Miriam’s face is one of malevolent understanding, while Cullen merely raises one quizzical eyebrow. He doesn’t understand yet, but he will.

“Annie!” Jowan calls out, moving his elbow up and down to substitute for waving, and she waves back at him, beaming in anticipation.

He makes it to the table with his dishes successfully, but Anya knows that’s not the end of it -not by a long shot; he still has to unload the plates from his hands. The trio watch incredibly closely as Jowan leans over to place his goblet onto the table, trying to support the rest of the dishes between his left arm and chin. His hand trembles as he nearly buckles under the weight, but places the goblet successfully onto the edge of the table.

“There. We. Go,” he vocalises with a satisfied smile.

As he is leaning, one sweetroll slides out of one of his dishes and sighs deeply. He pauses for a moment, gazing forlornly at the roll and contemplating his next move very carefully. It all comes down to this one moment. Anya, Cullen, and Miriam are at the edge of their seats.

“Oh, that’s not good…” Jowan mumbles, furrowing his eyes.

His next action, the culmination of his strategizing, has him leaning ever so slightly, while still balancing his plates on his arm. He inches forward, sticking one leg out to gently nudge the sweetroll out from under the bench. His first attempt pushes it further in, but the second attempt yields much better results. Once the sweetroll is out in the open, he crouches down, the plates shuddering and clattering together, but miraculously still balanced in his arms.

“Do you need help with that?” Cullen asks, his face slowly shifting from curiosity to worry. He feels a small hand in the nook of his elbow and sees Anya shaking her head at him worldlessly.

From behind four plates, a small voice replies, “No, I’m fine!”

Jowan sticks his free arm out, reaching desperately for the roll, but this causes a shift in the plates that causes the soup dish at the top to begin tipping over. Desperately, Jowan sticks his neck out, catching the bowl with his chin in the nick of time. Unfortunately, this only causes the bowl to dip in the opposite direction.

“Maker’s breath!”

Anya covers her lips to hide the large grin on her face as soup pours down the front of Jowan’s robes, soaking through to his skin and causing him to groan in disappointment. Still crouching, he waddles closer to the bench and tries to balance all his plates on top. He lets out an audible sigh of relief once he’s got the plates out of his way. He then stands up to assess the damage done to his robes, pinching the front and lifting it up to his nose. It smells like potatoes -but then again, most ferelden food smells like potatoes.

With a mournful glance at the ground, he remembers the bun, and with renewed determination, bends over to pick it up, but the soup on the ground has made it too slippery for his boots to keep him upright. They slide back, causing him to lose his balance and fall face first onto the ground.

“Whoops! Slipped in the soup!” he announces from the floor.

“Yes, indeed…” Cullen mumbles.

“We noticed, darling,” Miriam says, leaning forward to watch.

“Are you keeping score?” Anya asks her in a low whisper.

“I thought you were?” comes the response.

Jowan braces his palms against the ground and picks up the roll with a dizzy but triumphant look on his face. He takes a bite out of it for good measure. It may have been on the ground, but it’s still good as far as he’s concerned.

His free hand moves up to the top of the bench, brushing up against the stack of plates which shudder ominously. One wrong move would send them toppling down -and that’s really what Anya and Miriam are counting on.

It starts with the first; a delicious dish full of rice and vegetables begins to slowly slide down, unbeknownst to Jowan, who is still savoring his newly rescued sweetroll. Just as he begins ascending from his crouch, the dish flips over and plops onto his head like a hat. His hair is drenched, decorated with brown rice and bits of finely chopped vegetables, and strands of it are falling onto his face.

He sighs and gets back to his feet, shrugging at the trio in front of him with a resigned expression. “Oh, well…” He receives a diverse mix of sympathetic nods and shrugs from the trio in front of him in response.

As he speaks, however, the next plate in line begins to slip and he lurches to attention, trying to steady it. It’s a very large helping of druffalo meat and it took him ten minutes of waiting just to get it, and he is only just lucky enough to keep it from sliding down and completely ruining his dinner. He places the rescued plate onto the table and places the sweetroll next to it.

“That was close!” he remarked cheerfully. It’s moments like these when Anya truly loves her best friend.

There are still two dishes left on the bench, overshadowed by Jowan’s soaking wet robes. He purses his lips and picks them back up. He still can’t see much through his wet and sticky hair, but he tries shaking his head like a wet hound to get most of the food out. Fortunately, nothing happens when he places his two remaining plates on the table next to his druffalo meat.

He inspects his work, his lips upturned in satisfaction. With a thumbs up, he reaches for his goblet and takes a sip of berry juice; he reckons he’s earned it for a job well done -and it  _ is _ a job well done all things considered. Anya bares her teeth at him in amusement, returning his gesture twofold. 

“I think I should change out of these robes before getting started on dinner,” he muses, flashing Anya a smile before twisting on his heel.

“Hey, Jay?” Anya calls out, stopping him in his tracks.

“Yeah, Annie?”

“Thank you.” 

Jowan reaches behind him to rub the back of his neck bashfully. “What for?”

“Just… everything.” Miriam affirms, gazing dreamily at him.

He shrugs uncertainly before continuing on his way.

Cullen turns his gaze slowly towards Anya like his head is on an axis. There are so many questions in his eyes, but his mouth is just flapping pathetically, unable to make a single noise. Anya simply grabs the templar by his chin and turns his head to look at Jowan’s back.

As if on cue, Jowan trips on literally nothing -just thin air. It is amazing to witness and if it hadn’t been Jowan, then perhaps more people would have been surprised to see it. He falls head-first into Liam (not Larry), and stumbles backwards, disoriented. The bottoms of his boots must still be coated in soup and rice, because he stumbles back much farther than he intends to. And because people are terrible creatures with absolutely no empathy, rather than help, they simply part to make room for his tragic descent… directly into the pan of mashed potatoes.

“Maker, yes!” Anya hisses, pumping her fist into the air. She’s so excited that she nearly kisses Amell full on the lips, but luckily for Miriam, Anya settles for a hug. A beautiful conclusion to a beautiful show, it nearly brings them to tears.

At this point, Cullen can only shake his head in disbelief, his eyes wide like he’s still trying to decide on the right emotion to experience in this moment. He fears he may never truly find out.

“I’m okay!” Jowan calls out from across the hall, peeling himself off of the mashed potato tray and straightening up.

Anya shoots to her feet and waves over at him. “I should probably deal with that,” she informs her companions. She grabs her notebook and her pen and runs off.

“W-wait!” Cullen exclaims. “I’ll help!”

She cocks her head at him but shrugs nonetheless, waiting for him to catch up to her.

 

* * *

“Do you think anyone saw that?” Jowan asks.

Anya has an arm slung around his shoulder, careful to avoid the crusty remnants of the mashed potatoes. “No!” she reassures him, squeezing his shoulder and leading him through the apprentice quarters. “You were really subtle this time.”

Cullen is walking by Jowan’s other shoulder, escorting the duo silently. He’s seen Anya and Jowan attached at the hip since the very first day he was posted at this circle, and their friendship is one of the biggest curiosities he’s found in his time here. One moment they’re tangled up in each other’s arms and the next moment, they’re being wilfully malicious to each other, but he can’t deny that whatever there is between them, there’s love and lots of it.

“Are you sure?” Jowan insists.

“Yes, yes!” she replies. “Now we’re just gonna run you a hot bath and you can forget this happened. Does that sound good?”

Cullen can’t help but hide his smile in his shoulder. She sounded just like his older sister then -though he’d like to believe that Mia would have stopped this mess before it even began. How long has it been since he wrote Mia? He feels a sigh build up in his chest -she’s probably fuming at home.

“Thank you for coming with us, Cullen,” Surana nods gently, pushing open the doors to the communal bath chamber.

“It was my pleasure,” he says softly. “Have a lovely evening.”

Anya glances over at Jowan, who has already entered the chamber. “I’m not sure lovely is the right word.”

Cullen chuckles. “Perhaps I spoke too soon. Good night then.”

Much to her surprise, she finds herself genuinely smiling. “Good night.”


End file.
